


hold on 'till daybreak

by GoblinRuler



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Animal Transformations, Badass!Jaskier, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feelings Realization, Geralt of Rivia needs to be saved, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, The Tam Lin AU no-one asked for, a little bit, as a treat, bamf!Jaskier, but mostly himself, ciri is a badass too, from everything, my apologies to the original legend, tam lin au, there is some blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24112834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoblinRuler/pseuds/GoblinRuler
Summary: Ever since the disaster on the mountain, Jaskier has been traveling alone, trying his best to forget that he ever called a Geralt a friend. Imagine his surprise, then, when he encounters the witcher's Child Surprise in a remote village, waiting for him to return from a contract. Said contract, however, proved far more dangerous than expected, and Jaskier finds that despite all that's happened, he can't leave Geralt to his fate.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 88
Kudos: 771





	hold on 'till daybreak

**Author's Note:**

> There is, in my opinion, a severe lack of 'Jaskier saving Geralt'-fic. So this is my contribution to remedying that. Enjoy!
> 
> This fic is dedicated to the lovely Esyla, who loves the legend I based this story on (and who graciously beta'd my other Witcher fic AND listens to me ramble about these idios). Thank you so much, dear!

This must be what irony is, Jaskier thinks bitterly, as the crowd demands he play ‘Toss A Coin’ _again_. Every town he visits, every inn he plays at, no matter the mood, the moment he strums his lute, someone demands that _fucking song_. He supposes he should be grateful that it’s such a crowd pleaser - more coin is always welcome - but the song leaves a bitter taste in his mouth nowadays. 

He forces himself to smile - warmly, he hopes. “You’re too kind, my good folk, but wouldn’t you rather hear one of my newer works? I have a lovely ballad, fresh out of my brilliant mind, just aching to be pl-”

“Play ‘Toss A Coin’!” some drunk interrupts him and the other patrons cheer in agreement. 

Jaskier clenches his teeth - damn them all - but then he inhales deeply. “Very well, I wouldn’t dream of disappointing my audience, especially when they demand my… _best_ work,” he can feel his throat tighten a fraction at that, but he wills himself to continue, “so here it is, once more, ‘Toss A Coin’!” He gets a few more cheers at that as he strums his lute and the first chords ring out. 

The crowd, to their credit, actually enjoys the song, singing along with the chorus - some better than others - and when he finishes the song and asserts that he is tired, they are generous with their coin. 

It’s not until Jaskier retreats to a table with full pockets, a plate of food, and a mug of ale, that he notices a pair of eyes staring at him from the corner of the inn. It’s a young girl, about 13 years of age, her clothes drab and her hair a muddy brown - too muddy, he realizes, like it’s not her real colour, but a cheap and quick dyejob - and her pale eyes follow his every move. It’s those eyes that make him pause. He’s seen those before, he thinks, but he can’t recall where. He nods at the girl and focuses on his food, which is better than in most inns, and the ale, which is not. 

A short time later though, he feels someone approach him and when he looks up, there she is, her eyes fixed on his face. Fuck, she must have recognized him. Usually, Jaskier is happy to chat with fans, but he’s already in a bad mood from playing that damned song and he really does not want to regale anyone, no matter how young, with stories about G-... about him. Nevertheless, he manages to smile at her - gently, he hopes. “I’m sorry, my dear, performance is over for tonight.”

“You’re Jaskier,” the girl breathes, her eyes wide.

“The one and only,” he nods, bracing himself for it. Statements like this are usually followed by either a question - whether he actually travelled with the White Wolf of Rivia - or another statement - that he _did_ travel with the witcher - and then questions, sighs, breathless smiles, as they all want their own piece of the story he lived for 22 years, only to be cast aside like a tool that’s lost its function.

“You played at the court in Cintra.” 

That… was not what he expected. He stares at the young girl, her eyes boring into his, wide and desperate, as if she’s begging him for something without uttering the words. Those eyes… Cintra… 

“Holy f-...” He cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence and looks around quickly. The evening is coming to an end, most patrons have finished their drinks and are stumbling towards the door. Still, better safe than sorry. He pushes his chair back, calmly, trying not to draw too much attention to himself and motions for her to follow him upstairs to the room he rented. He ushers her inside, throwing one last glance down the hallway - vacant, thank Melitele - before closing the door and bolting it. Then he turns to her. 

Princess Cirilla, the Lion Cub of Cintra, stands in the middle of the room, pale and scared and alive. She fiddles with the hem of the jerkin she wears, a roughspun thing that is too large for her slight frame, and eyes him warily. They stare at each other for a short moment, then she inhales sharply and a sob escapes her. 

Jaskier steps towards her and she falls into his arms, crying quietly. He pets her hair gently, a thousand questions swirling through his mind. As a rule, bards and princesses don’t interact much, of course, but he had been invited to every birthday banquet, playing his best tunes, making faces at the little girl and relishing her delighted giggles. He’s sure Calanthe knew that they would sneak away every time, Jaskier slipping the princess sweets and regaling her with stories, her eyes wide as he told her about the many adventures he’d been on, the monsters he’d seen, the sights of the world beyond the castle gate.

Over the years he’d seen her grow up, marvelling at how much she looked like her mother, Pavetta. When news of the fall of Cintra and the death of Queen Calanthe reached him, he’d assumed that Cirilla had perished there too. 

He pushes her away gently and she lets him, her face still wet with tears, but her eyes shine with relief. “I’m so glad to see you. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Shh, it’s alright, you’re going to be fine,” Jaskier replies. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to her before leading her to the bed. She dries her eyes as she sits down and he pulls up a chair, sitting down across from her. “What happened to you? How did you get here all by yourself? Are you hurt?”

She sobs again, but her eyes are dry now, the handkerchief crumpled in her fist and she tells him about her journey, the escape from Cintra, the cold forest, the refugee camp and then, finally…

“Grandmother told me to find Geralt. Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf from your stories.” At this, Jaskier feels a pit form in his stomach. No matter his feelings for the witcher, this child needs to find him. Perhaps that was why she was so hopeful, she remembered Jaskier’s stories and thought he was still travelling with Geralt, that he could bring them together.

“Princess-”

“It’s Ciri. Just Ciri now.”

“Alright… Ciri, I’m so sorry, but Geralt and I… we parted ways a while ago and I don’t know where he is. I haven’t heard anything in a while either, so-”

She looks up sharply. “That’s not the problem. I found him a few weeks ago.”

Jaskier lets out a surprised laugh. “You’re joking.”

Princess Cirilla - _Ciri_ \- does not laugh. “It’s Destiny. People linked by Destiny will always find each other.” She says it like the words have weight to them, her chin raised defiantly, and Jaskier can see her saying the same thing to Geralt numerous times, back straight and fists balled, every inch the Lioness of Cintra she will one day be. 

“Alright, alright, I believe you. So where is he now? Out on a contract?” He feels a flash of anger surge as he says that. Geralt often went out to take care of a monster when they travelled together, but he can’t imagine the witcher being inclined to leave his Child Surprise alone like this.

Ciri’s face falls at his question. “He was. A short one, he said, should not take more than one night. That was two nights ago. I think something has gone wrong, but I don’t know what to do.” New tears brim in her eyes, but she presses on, as if willing them not to fall down her cheeks. “I wanted to go out and look for him, but I don’t know the land and I’m afraid I’ll encounter Nilfgaardians. And what if Geralt comes back when I’m out? What if he never comes back? We were on our way to Kaer Morhen, but I don’t think anyone there - if there’s anyone left - knows we were coming. No one knows we’re here.” Her voice breaks and she takes in a shaky breath once more.

Jaskier reaches out to grasp her shoulders. “Shh shh, it’s okay, it’s alright. You did well trying to stay out of sight. I think the dye also helps. I didn’t even recognize you when I first saw you.” His tone is light, but the heavy pit in his stomach only grows as he rubs his thumbs back and forth on Ciri’s arms. Two nights, for a short contract? That is… odd. Not unusual, but not good either. “Do you have any idea what he was up against? Did anyone say anything specific?”

“No. All they said was that something in the woods snatches people every once in a while, usually when they’re alone in there, at night. It sounded like it had been going on for a while and they were happy to see a witcher.” Ciri pauses, suddenly frowning. “They even said they’d take me in until he got back. That they would not charge him extra if it took him a little longer than expected…” With a start, she looks up at him. “You don’t think-”

“Hey, hey, this is Geralt we’re talking about,” Jaskier interrupts, gently, “He knows what he’s doing and he’s got more tricks up his sleeve than anyone I know. I’m sure he’s ok.” He says it with conviction, his eyes fixed on hers. “Would you feel better if I stayed here for now? I’m sure he’ll come barging in in the morning, perfectly fine and grumpy. Well, until he sees me, then he’ll just be grumpy,” he adds with a smirk.

Ciri gives him a watery smile. “I’d like not to be alone right now.”

Jaskier smiles back and hugs her again. He’ll go look, he tells himself, for her. She’s been through enough. He’s doing it for Ciri. Just for Ciri.

*

Geralt does not grace them with his presence in the morning and Jaskier is torn between relief and worry over it. One more day, he decides, casting a glance at Ciri, who is stirring her porridge listlessly, shooting hopeful glances at the door every time it opens.

He spends the morning in the inn with Ciri, playing little songs and chords on his lute, trying to coax a smile from her and earning some more coin in the meantime. In the afternoon, he even manages to get her to join him in exploring the town and the market. They eat sweet rolls in an alley, crumbs of sugar dusting their fingers as they keep an eye out for soldiers in black as well as a certain witcher. Neither show up. Asking around about Geralt yields no results either. The villagers recall him coming into town - his striking appearance earning him notoriety wherever he goes - but other than that, they don’t seem to know anything. 

By the time the sun goes down again, Jaskier can no longer pretend not to be worried. “I’m going out to take a look tonight,” he tells Ciri over a bowl of steaming stew. 

She pauses mid-bite, her face a mixture of hopefulness and dread. “What do you think you’ll find?”

“I…” In all honesty, Jaskier expects he’ll find a body. There’s no way Geralt would stay away this long, not unless he’s… he’s… 

He cuts off his train of thought. “I’m not sure, but anything I find is better than waiting and not knowing. I promise I’ll return as soon as I know, alright? We’ll figure something out when we know for sure what has happened.”

She nods, her face pale and understanding. “And what if you don’t come back either?”

Jaskier bites his lip, unsure of how to answer her. After a moment’s consideration, he reaches for his belt and pulls out his coin purse. “Here. I have a horse in the stables, her name is Buttercup. If I don’t return before morning, you take her and make for Kaer Morhen as fast as you can.”

“I’m not leaving!” Ciri’s voice is a high, not-quite shriek, and from the corner of his eye, Jaskier sees a pane of glass crack in the window as her shout dies down. Thankfully, Ciri realizes it too and lowers her voice. “Either you come back, with or without Geralt, or I’m coming to find you.” Jaskier moves to protest, but she speaks over him. “I don’t know where to go, but I can’t stay here either. The soldiers will expect me on the roads, so I might as well cut through the forest. And if I’m going through the forest, who knows, maybe I’ll find you and we can travel together anyways. Besides, if you get lost, who’s going to find you?” 

Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, but Ciri fixes him with a glare so intense he momentarily expects her eyes to yellow. “You and Geralt are meant for each other,” he mumbles eventually, bringing his tankard to his lips and grimacing at the sourness of the ale, “I never met anyone as brash and pigheaded as the two of you.”

“Takes one to know one,” she says, and focuses her attention back on her stew.

*

“Fucking witchers,” Jaskier all but curses, tripping over yet another root. The woods are dense and dark and the bit of light from the waning moon barely makes it through the thick foliage above. As much as he gripes - _used to gripe_ , he reminds himself - about witchers and their ability to see in the dark, he would give a limb to share that ability right now. Well, maybe not a limb, but some fingers? A toe or two?

“Why oh why did I even volunteer for this,” he mumbles, toeing around and actually managing to locate the next protruding root, stepping over it, “why am I here? It’s not like he would want me here to begin with, why am I like this- _ack!_ ” A branch thwaps him in the face, because he’s too focused on his feet to notice what’s happening at eye-level, and he almost lets out a frustrated shout. Almost.

Taking a moment to breathe in, he stands still at the edge of a little clearing between the trees, forcing his anger back down. He knows he’s out of his element here. He’s alone, he’s in the dark and he only has his dagger to defend himself. He can almost hear Geralt’s voice in his head, gruff and annoyed. _‘Shut up, Jaskier, don’t draw attention to yourself. I won’t always be there to protect you from whatever monster answers your wailing.’_

“Fuck you, Geralt,” Jaskier hisses through clenched teeth, as if the witcher is actually with him. Good Gods, he sounds pathetic. Looking for a witcher who sent him away, who isn’t even his friend, who was only ever irritated by his presence. He must be a masochist, doing all of this.

He takes one more deep breath and then continues on his way, fingers clenched around the handle of his dagger, the only thing he brought besides the medicine pouch on his belt. Leaving his lute with Ciri at the inn seemed like the logical choice, but he feels naked without it on his back, as if the instrument were a piece of armor or an amulet shielding him from evil. He’d be loathe to have it break or get lost on his - probably futile - quest. Then again, he would probably have more luck bashing a monster’s head in than he would stabbing it.

Lost in thought as he is, Jaskier does not notice the fog at first, as it curls around the trees and slinks across the mossy ground of the clearing. When he does, though, it’s surrounded him on all sides, obscuring both the path he’s following and his way back. He turns around, looking in every direction, but the trees all look alike and the moonlight illuminates only the branches. “Shit,” he hisses, cursing himself again for not bringing a torch.

Then his ears pick up a noise. Crunching leaves, snapping twigs, the rustling of branches and bushes being pushed aside. Jaskier bites back another swear, crouching low next to a large tree, trying his hardest to peer through the fog. Whoever - or _whatever_ \- is approaching is not even trying to be quiet, it’s almost as if they want to be heard.

A silhouette becomes visible in the fog, looming in the dark, walking slowly but deliberately, as if listening for movement, any movement. Jaskier presses himself against the tree, his fingers gripping his dagger so hard they go numb. He watches as the figure comes closer, becomes clearer. It looks like a man, tall and broad-shouldered, walking with a steady, self-assured gait, getting closer and closer to Jaskier’s impromptu hiding spot one measured step at a time. It - _he_ \- stops barely ten feet away, just standing between the veiled trees. Jaskier barely breathes, his ears pricked, praying silently that the man has not noticed him, that he will walk on without seeing him.

“I know you’re there.” The voice is gruff and deep and so achingly familiar that Jaskier actually lets out a startled squeak. The figure starts, his head whipping around and now definitely aware of him. “You should not be here. This place is dangerous. Leave while you still can.” When Jaskier does not respond, the man steps forwards. The fog parts in front of him and when the man steps into the clearing, the moonlight shines through the branches above and reflects off the hilts of the two swords on his back and the silver medallion on his chest. 

The relief Jaskier feels at the realization that Geralt is not dead is immediately overshadowed by anger. He lets out a huff and the witcher turns to him, yellow eyes boring into his. The frown on his face disappears, replaced by an expression of disbelief. “Jaskier? What are you doing here?”

The bard barks out a mirthless laugh, straightening up now that he knows he’s not in danger. “Oh, nothing really. I was actually on my way to Oxenfurt when I passed the inn a mile or so back and I decided to stop by for a quick bite and an actual bed for once. Lots of interesting people you meet in an inn, you know.” He keeps his voice light, twirling his dagger before sliding it back into its sheath, ignoring the wary look on Geralt’s face. “You know, I met a very friendly young girl in the inn. All alone, far from home, worried sick, I’m sure you understand. So being the generous person that I am, _way_ too generous for my own good actually, I listened to her tale and decided to see if I could find her errant traveling companion.” 

At the mention of Ciri, Geralt’s face is clouded with worry. “Is Ciri still at the inn? Is she alright?”

The anger that has been coiling in Jaskier’s chest snaps up like a hungry beast. “She was when I came to find you, you complete and utter asshole,” he hisses. “She was worried sick, sure that your last contract had been, you know, your actual _last_ contract. But here you are, peachy as always, wandering around a forest doing who knows what, not even bothering to return.”

“Jaskier…” Geralt starts, but the bard won’t let him.

“She’s been alone in that inn for three. Days. Three _fucking_ days, Geralt. You are lucky I passed by, loathe as you probably are that our paths have crossed once more. Not to worry though.” He wipes his hands on his pants to hide that they’re shaking with fury and approaches the witcher. “Let’s just get your back to your Child Surprise so you and I can part ways once more. I’m sure you’re just itching to be rid of me.”

“No wait, Jaskier, you don’t understand-”

“No no, you made yourself perfectly clear on that fucking mountain,” the bard continues, his stride unbroken, “the moment we’re out of this forest I’ll get out of your hair. But I’m making sure you’re getting back to that poor girl. As much as it sucks for her that you’re all she has left, it’s better than nothing.”

“I can’t,” Geralt says, actually taking a step back when Jaskier draws near, “Jaskier, please listen to me-”

“I’m done listening to you! Now come on, you were all ‘these woods are dangerous’ just now, so let’s get out of-” Jaskier reaches for Geralt’s wrist, as if he could drag the witcher along against his will, but pauses when the most peculiar thing happens. His fingers pass right through Geralt’s arm.

He freezes in place, as does Geralt, and they stare at each other in silence. Jaskier makes to take Geralt’s arm once more, slower this time, and the witcher looks on passively as once more, Jaskier’s hand glides right through Geralt’s form, as if he’s not really there. Wide-eyed, Jaskier looks up and meets Geralt’s gaze.

“Geralt… what happened?”

The witcher glowers at him in his usual way, but then he closes his eyes briefly, as if resigned to the situation. “Trapped.”

“No shit! But you’re not one to sit and wait around for rescue, so how come you haven’t found you way back to Ciri yet? Fuck, how did you even get trapped in the first place?”

“I’ll tell you,” Geralt replies, his gaze stony, “but not here. Come, I’ll lead you back to the edge of the woods, you really shouldn’t be here.”

Jaskier huffs in irritation, crossing his arms. “You’re one to talk. But fine, I’ll indulge you, as usual. Let’s walk.”

He turns around and makes to stomp away, but his foot gets caught on another _fucking tree root_ and he sprawls onto the forest floor, his arms cartwheeling as he scrabbles for purchase to break his fall. The moss makes for a soft landing - the only blessing he gets, apparently - and he makes to get up as soon as he hits the ground. Dusting himself off, he looks over his shoulder at Geralt, who hasn’t moved. “Well?” Jaskier bites out.

The witcher nods once and moves to take the lead. As he does, Jaskier can’t help but notice that the strange fog parts in front of him, closing in behind. Not wanting to spend any more time in these strange woods - seriously, they give him the heebie-jeebies -, he follows behind.

They walk in silence for a short while, as the trees get further apart and the foliage parts more often, the moonlight illuminating more and more as they go. Geralt, strangely, does not seem to listen or look out for any traces of monsters, not like he used to. It bothers Jaskier more than he wants to admit, but he refuses to ask. Geralt said he would explain and damn him if Jaskier is the first to talk.

Finally, Geralt does speak up. “If you spoke to Ciri, you know I took a contract.” It’s a statement, not a question, and he does not wait for Jaskier to say anything. “I was told people were disappearing in these woods, mostly around dusk, no traces. I should have known something was off, but I… Ciri was so tired and the extra coin would help us a lot on the way. Turns out, these woods used to be a Fae portal.”

Jaskier’s step falters for a second, his heart sinking. He knows even less about Fae than he knows about elves, but from the way Geralt is talking, whatever he’s gonna say next is not good.

“Since the Great Cleansing, the Fae have been mostly living in their own world, away from monsters and mortals. But this portal remains and I accidently crossed into the Fae world. So now I’m stuck.”

Jaskier waits for Geralt to continue, but the witcher returns to his trademark silence, trudging on as the trees get further and further apart. The sky overhead has gone from black to blue with a soft pink gleam promising daybreak and Geralt turns up to look at it. As he does, the last moonlight shining from between the overhead branches casts down on them. With a shock, Jaskier realizes that the light passes right through him, as if he’s fading. “Geralt-”

“Hmm.” Geralt stops and Jaskier stumbles to stop and not bump into him, only to pass through his form. The sensation draws horror from the bard - it’s like he’s not there at all! - and he turns to the witcher with wide eyes.

“There must be… we have to get you back here! Please, what can I do, I can’t just leave you here, Ciri needs you and Yennefer-”

“There’s nothing to be done,” Geralt cuts him off with a wave of his hand - almost translucent -, “I have tried several times. The Fae I met here are less than helpful and the villagers avoid these woods as much as they can. I’m afraid I’ll stay here.” His expression softens a bit, but it gets more difficult to see as the pink gleam makes its way across the sky. 

“What’s happening to you?!” Jaskier can hear the panic in his voice as he grabs for Geralt, only for his hands to pass through him like before. It doesn’t stop him from trying again, growing more frustrated every time he fails to properly take Geralt’s arm.

“The doorway is closing. It opens every night and allows me back here, but by daybreak, I’m back in the Fae realm.” Geralt’s voice is getting fainter and fainter and he’s barely there anymore.

“I’ll come back tonight then! I can’t leave you here, Geralt, I promised Ciri-”

“Get her to Kaer Morhen.” He has to strain to hear the witcher now, his voice a whisper on the wind, his shape the barest outline against the trees. “She will be safe there. Please, Jaskier, just get her-”

The last part of his sentence is lost as the sunlight beams through the leafs above, scattering his shadow into nothingness. Jaskier stands there, staring at the spot where Geralt was just a moment ago, his hand still outstretched as if he only has to beckon to get him back. Only when the birds start chirping their morning songs does he drop his arm. He turns around to make for the inn, turns back around, grabbing at his hair, the frustration and despair building in his chest as he struggles to breathe. 

Flying, fucking _fuck_. What is he going to tell Ciri?

*

Jaskier makes it back to the inn eventually. The sun is already well into the sky as he comes stumbling in through the door, finding Ciri already up, crumbling a small piece of bread at a table against the wall. She looks up and her face brightens for a moment when she sees him, then falters again when she sees that he’s alone. He shakes his head before she can ask him anything, gesturing for the stairs.

Ciri, to her credit, gets up calmly and precedes him up to their room once more, where he fills her in quickly. Her elation at the fact that Geralt is still alive dampens when he explains the witcher’s predicament. “So he’s stuck,” she summarizes when he’s done, pacing back and forth in the room, brow furrowed, “but the door keeps on opening every night? Logic states that if he got in, he can come back out, right?”

Jaskier, who’s working his way through the hunk of dry bread he snatched from one of the tables on his way up, gets no chance to reply before she continues. 

“Alright, so we’ll just go back to the forest tonight and talk to Geralt again! Then we figure out what we need to do to get him back, do that and then we can all go to Kaer Morhen together!” She turns to the bard with a flourish, grinning wildly. “That should be easy enough, right? If getting into the Fae realm is as easy as walking in, getting out should be no problem at all!”

Her enthusiasm - no doubt reawakened by the knowledge that Geralt is still alive - endears Jaskier for a moment, but then reality settles back in. He chews his last mouthful of bread slowly, considering his words thoroughly before replying. “I think it might not be as easy as that, my dear.”

Ciri’s grin fades a little. “Why not?”

“Well,” Jaskier responds, “for starters, if it were that easy, I think Geralt would have figured it out by himself. But that’s not what bothers me about all this.”

“Then what is?” 

“You say Geralt went into those woods on a contract?” At Ciri’s nod, Jaskier continues. “Doesn’t it seem a little strange? A forest in which people disappear? From what you’ve told me, as long as nobody goes into the woods, nothing happens. But if it were a matter of simply avoiding the woods, why send in a witcher? Why waste the coin?” He pauses, trying to make sense of it all. Why would anyone contract a witcher to solve a problem that is not necessarily a problem? “Ciri, tell me. Who gave Geralt the contract? Who sent him out there?”

She thinks for a moment. “The.. the innkeeper. He noticed the swords and asked if Geralt were up for a fast job. He was quite insistent.” She ponders her words for a moment and then, her eyes go wide, as if she realizes something. “You think… you think they sent him there _intending_ for him to disappear like that? That they know?”

“For now, I don’t think, I suspect,” Jaskier replies grimly. “Perhaps it’s all a misunderstanding, but I have travelled for too long to assume as such. I think we should have a chat with the man himself, see if he can clear up some things.”

*

They decide to sleep for a couple of hours. Jaskier feels exhausted after spending the entire night dodging tree roots and Ciri, after some prodding, admits to not sleeping much either. It’s already evening by the time they wake again, hearing the laughter and shouting of many guests downstairs. With a shared nod, they dress and head downstairs.

The room is packed with people again and Jaskier is immediately recognised, which is followed by demands of music. For a moment, he considers refusing, but then he realises that even if he can get the innkeeper to talk to him, if the talking turns sour, he’ll be surrounded by people who will no doubt throw him out, maybe Ciri too. It’s too big a risk. So he grins and bears it, playing his songs and then several more, smiling and winking and performing to his best ability. All the while, he keeps an eye on Ciri, who has taken her usual spot at a back table again, accepting a plate of food when a barmaid brings it to her.

It takes hours, more time than Jaskier wants, but by the time most patrons have left, it’s dark outside. Jaskier finally finishes his last song, gracefully accepting the last coins thrown his way and then hops down from the table he used as a makeshift stage, leaving his lute there. He bounds up to the bar and slumps down on one of the stools. “As much as I adore gracing the public with my voice, singing does leave a man thirsty,” he smirks. The innkeeper - a rotund man, bald but with an impressive grey mustache - wordlessly hands him a tankard and moves to swipe the counter. Jaskier takes a moment to drink, managing to avoid a grimace at the disappointing taste of the ale, and sees the last of the patrons leave through the door. 

“I’m thinking of moving on soon, though. As welcoming as you have been here, my blood sings for new ventures,” he drawls, swirling his tankard around as if in thought. “Unfortunately, this place is quite remote. Would take me quite some time to get to a town from here.” The innkeeper does not answer him, still swiping the counter, so Jaskier presses on. “Perhaps I should cut through the woods, might cut some time that way. I saw a nice path leading in while on a late night walk last night. Looked magical, almost, in the late night moonlight. Strangely empty, though, no sign of anything, not even animals. One would almost think anything living avoids those woods. Makes one wonder why.”

The innkeeper, to his credit, almost manages to suppress his flinch. Almost.

“‘Cause the strange thing is,” Jaskier drawls on, now intent on the innkeeper, “I swear I saw someone walk there. Strange, right? Animals won’t go in, but people do? A sensible person would know to avoid a place shunned by animals. Makes you think what the fellow was doing, especially at that hour, and with not one but two swords strapped to his back.” 

The innkeeper throws his rag down and finally, _finally_ , faces Jaskier, fixing him with an intense stare. “What are you implying, bard?”

Jaskier meet his stare head on, stretching out the moment by taking another long drink. “I wouldn’t know, good sir. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“Don’t play dumb now, boy. Speak your mind.”

Well then, if that’s how he wants to play it. Jaskier puts his tankard down with a thud. “There was a witcher here, a couple of nights ago. He took a contract from you and did not return. Now that in itself is not strange, but a little bird told me there was more to this contract than one would expect. More than what you told the witcher.”

“Now listen here-” The innkeeper’s hand shoots out over the counter and grabs Jaskier by his shirt, pulling him close. Before the innkeeper can say a thing, however, Jaskier presses his dagger to his throat.

“No, you piece of shit, you listen,” he hisses. From the corner of his eye, he sees Ciri inching closer, her ears pricked, trying to catch onto what they’re saying. “That particular witcher happens to be a… _an acquaintance_ of mine. When I heard he was lost to the woods, I decided to take a gander myself. I mean, the least I could do was see to it that he got his last respects, wouldn’t you think? Now imagine my surprise at what I found. But I’m sure you know, don’t you?” He presses the tip of his dagger into the man’s Adam’s apple, drawing a tiny drop of blood. “So why don’t you unhand me, right now, and tell me what you know I want to know?”

The innkeeper swallows and his fingers relax, letting go of Jaskier’s shirt, and the man takes a step back. “I didn’t intend for him to end up as he did, alright?” he grunts, “I just thought… I thought if anyone would know what to do, it would be a witcher. He seemed like a good sort, as far as mutants like that go.”

“Mind your tongue,” Jaskier growls, twirling his dagger between his fingers, “and tell me what I want to know.”

The innkeeper glares back at him, but resigns. “I’m sure you know those woods are… _wrong_ ,” he says, his lips twisting with obvious disgust. “Long ago, these lands were ruled by the Fae, but time and other, unknown things forced them to retreat to where they came from. Good riddance, if you ask me, but some of their influence remained. When our forefathers came here to claim these lands and build our town, the Fae turned up to strike a deal. One soul a year as a tithe, in exchange for good fortune for the lot of us.”

Jaskier’s stomach twists at those words and a horrible feeling of dread looms over him.

“There’s a drawing each year,” the innkeeper continues, “all fair and everything. Everyone knows, everyone accepts it. But last year…” He chokes and turns away for a moment, his eyes glistening. Jaskier waits as the man presses his knuckles to his eye, as if he can force the tears back by sheer willpower.

“Last year… look, we all know there’s a chance your number is drawn, fair’s fair. But it’s hard, especially for the younger ones. They weren’t there when we struck the bargain, when the terms were stated. They only know the good fortune, the good years. Their number don’t get added to the draw before they’re eighteen, no sense in that. So they grow up, knowing off the draw, but never directly affected by it. But last year, my daughter…”

Ciri gasps, and the sound rings loud like a bell in the otherwise silent room.

“It was her sweetheart, you see,” the innkeeper continues, “it was his first year in the draw. Bad luck, can’t be helped. He went willingly, but she wouldn’t abide with it. She sought for a way to free him and she found it. Some traveling troupe had a soothsayer amongst them and she got her answer from the old biddy. There would be trials, the Fae would try to trick her, but it could be done. I tried to talk her out of it, tried to tell her it was not worth it, but she was convinced she could do it.”

The man falls silent once more and Jaskier feels the dread form a stone in his stomach. He does not want to hear it, knowing how this story ends but hoping he can pretend it didn’t, if only he doesn’t hear it.

“I went into the woods at first light,” the innkeeper finally says, “and I found them there. Both of them, pale and cold, their throats slit, like animals. They were holding each others hands, side by side on the stone altar, their blood dripping into the earth. The tithe was fulfilled, as per the agreement. Nothing to be done.”

The silence rings loud and deafening between them. Jaskier’s hand lies limp on the counter now, his fingers only loosely grasping the dagger. “But it can be done?” he finally asks.

The innkeeper looks up sharply. “Are you stupid, boy? I just told you what happened to my daughter and you still want to run out there?” 

Jaskier grabs onto his dagger once more. “You haven’t told me what the soothsayer told your daughter. What can one do to save him?”

The innkeeper looks are him incredulously. “You really want to run into those woods and risk your life for a witcher?” Jaskier shoots the man a look, gritting his teeth, and the innkeeper sighs. “Alright, alright, it’s your own skin you’re risking. From what my daughter told me, at sundown in the eve of the summer solstice, the Fae start their procession towards their sacred place to sacrifice whichever unlucky soul was drawn this year on their stone altar, in the middle of the woods. You have to pull them out of the line and hold them ‘till daybreak, no matter what happens. The Fae have many tricks and they will do anything to get you to let go.” He pauses, then adds with a grim expression, “I’m sure you understand what happens when you do.”

Jaskier nods, then moves to slide his dagger back into its sheath, when Ciri’s hand clasps around his forearm. She’s white as a ghost. “The summer solstice?” she squeaks, her wide eyes fixed on the innkeeper. When the man nods at her, his face stony, she turns to the bard. “Jaskier, that’s tonight! And the sun went down already. They’re on the move!”

Dread washes over him like a cold rain and he’s up before he knows it. “You’re staying here,” he says, “I’ll be back.”

“Now hold on-,” the innkeeper starts, but Jaskier grabs for his coin purse, slamming some money down on the counter.

“For the room,” he says, “and for her. Look after her ‘till the morning. If I don’t return…” He trails off, turning back to Ciri, whose face is ashen and expressionless. “If I don’t return, stick to what we agreed. Promise me.” He waits for her to nod, then presses a quick kiss to her forehead in lieu of giving her false hope and promises he can’t keep. Then he’s out the door.

*

He can’t tell how long he runs before he finds the path from before. The fog is already there, swirling and obscuring what lays ahead, but it’s like there’s a pull underneath his skin, guiding him where he needs to go. Ciri’s earlier words come back to him unbidingly. _People linked by Destiny will always find each other._

But what if he’s too late? How many hours have passed since sundown? How long does it take the procession to get to the altar? Is he even going in the right direction? What if he’s running the wrong way?

Before Jaskier can give any of these thoughts the proper attention, he trips on a root and goes sprawling. He twists in his fall, landing on his shoulder and gritting his teeth against the pain. He stays down for a second, catching his breath, the fog swirling around him and the woods quiet… _wait_.

Staying as still as possible, he listens. There, in the distance, he can hear something. Music, flutes and drums and tambourines, voices singing. He gets to his feet slowly, peering into the dark. The fog is getting thinner here and he can see small, dancing lights, moving and twisting, weaving their way through the woods.

He creeps closer slowly, the voices getting clearer. They’re singing in a language he does not know, words that reverberate in his chest and bounce in his ears as he makes his way towards them, hunched and slow, as the fog parts and lets him through. 

Finally, he finds a vantage spot behind a large tree and he leans against it in the dark, peeking around it. He sees a long line of people… no, he thinks, not people, Fae, the Fair Folk of the Woods. There’s men and women in shimmering robes, dancing in a line, instruments and voices coming together in a melody that was not meant for human ears. They are all lovely, fairer than any mortal he has ever seen, but only when he’s looking at them directly. When they’re in his peripheral, he catches glimpses of… things. Sharp teeth, too pointy ears, too long fingers, eyes that burn menacingly. 

In front of the procession, he sees a figure taller than the rest, fairer and sharper and radiating an air of royalty. That must be their Queen, he realises, tall and proud and horrifying as she leads her people towards… 

His heart leaps when he spots the place they’re heading. It’s a clearing, he sees, a half-circle of tall, ancient stone pillars with strange carvings in them. And in the middle of it, there is a stone altar, with chipped stone steps leading up to it. 

Jaskier swallows and wills his feet to move. He stays away from the procession and the path they’re following, creeping through the underbrush, moving on hands and feet from time to time in order to stay hidden. He finally reaches as close to the altar as he can, a few yards away from the stone steps, and stays low, on the look-out for the witcher.

It’s not long before he spots him. Flanked by two Fae maidens, in white dresses and with golden circlets on their golden heads, Geralt walks slowly towards the stone steps, his amulet gleaming around his neck. He’s in his shirt, Jaskier realizes, his armor and swords missing, and his head is down, his shoulders slumped. _Fuck_ , he must think…

Jaskier bites on his tongue to prevent himself from crying out to the witcher. If he gives himself away now, they will be lost. So he waits as the procession gathers around, a hush falling over them all as Geralt slowly but steadily approaches the altar. The Queen is standing behind it already, regarding him as he gets closer, her eyes cold and a menacing dagger glinting on her belt. The ladies who accompanied - or escorted - Geralt fall back. He’s alone now, slowly walking along, the Fae whispering amongst themselves as he draws closer and closer. Jaskier slowly gets up as far as he can, his entire body poised to break into a run, waiting for the right moment. Almost there, _almost_ …

Geralt raises a foot and takes the first step.

Jaskier shoots out of his hiding spot, arms pumping, legs thumping the ground and he runs, runs faster than he ever has in his entire life. He barrels past a couple fo Fae, who let out a surprised exclamation. Sharp fingers grasp at him, tear at his sleeves, but he ignores them, speeding up and leaping up into the clearing. Geralt doesn’t even have time to turn and see as the bard barrels into him and tackles him off of the stone steps. They tumble into the underbrush on the other side, rolling away from the menacing Queen, who lets out a shout that is almost a roar as Jaskier grasps onto Geralt with all his might. 

No sooner have they landed or Geralt seems to melt away under him. Jaskier panics for a second, frantically trying to hold on, but then a small speck of light on his hand catches his eye. A firefly buzzes around in his palm, it’s bulbous body blinking furiously. Without thinking, Jaskier clasps his hands together, trapping the tiny insect as it buzzes louder, the small body thumping against his fingers in an attempt to escape. He grins into the dark. If these Fae think he’s that easily beaten, they’re in for a surprise.

The body in his hands swells, growing alarmingly fast and in grotesque ways, claws and thick fur and snarling teeth. A white wolf growls in his grasp, teeth snapping at his face and Jaskier winces, but he has his arms firmly around the beast’s neck and he holds on as it twists and writhes in his grasp, paws skidding on the forest ground. It snarls and howls, trying to shake him off, but he holds. He must hold on, he can’t let Geralt go.

He’s not sure when the next change happens, but fur melts away and is replaced by dry scales and flapping wings. The beast in his arms - a basilisk, or maybe a cockatrice, Jaskier never remembers how to tell them apart - shrieks, the sound almost deafening, and its claws rake across the ground as it bucks and shakes. The bard grits his teeth, tightening his grip once more and holds on for dear life. The beast fights smarter now, using its bulk to smash him against surrounding trees in an attempt to shake him off. One particularly nasty hit has his head ring and he can feel his fingers slip, but that realization alone is enough to shake him out of his stupor.

The next change is even more horrifying. Countless legs and snapping pincers - a giant centipede coils around him, pincers narrowly missing Jaskier’s face and he chokes back a scream when they sink into his shoulder. The venom burns, but he can’t let go. He will not let go. The thing runs around, legs skittering on the ground, the long body winding in dizzying circles and Jaskier loses track of how many times they turn and twist around, his head spinning and his balance slowly slipping.

Then the skittering stops and a horrible smell fills his nostrils. Once more, thick fur and a bulking body take the place of the previous monstrosity. A bear, roaring and foaming at the mouth, its clawed paws battering Jaskier’s back. He sobs, clenches his fists into the pelt and lets the animal hit him again, and again and again.

He loses track of time, does not register what kind of monster the witcher turns into next. He just keeps holding on with all his might, his head down and his teeth clenched. He must hold on. _He must not let go_.

Finally, the thrashing and growling stops. Jaskier breathes heavily, his arms almost numb with how tight he’s holding on. The warm body in his arms has no fur, nor scales. Instead, he feels rough fabric against his cheek, smells the oils Geralt uses to keep his cuirass clean and supple. That makes him brave enough to open his eyes and look up at the witcher. Geralt - in his own form - is staring down at him and for a second, the scowl on his face confuses Jaskier.

“Geralt?” He can’t keep the tremble from his voice. The way Geralt is looking at him is making him anxious, bringing up memories of not too long ago and the longer Geralt stays silent, the more anxious Jaskier gets. “Is it over? Did I do it? Please, answer me.”

Instead of answering, Geralt snarls at him. “Why did you come here? Didn’t I tell you to fuck off clearly enough?”

His words nearly knock the breath out of the bard. “Wha- what are you talking about?”

Geralt bares his teeth at him, his eyes blazing with fury. “Are you stupid as well as tone-deaf, bard? I told you last time, fuck off and leave me alone. All you ever did was bring disaster on my path. Do something useful for once and leave me alone.”

Every word is like a knife to the gut. Jaskier can feel his eyes start to water and he desperately hopes Geralt can’t see his tears. After everything that has happened, after this horrible night and all the pain, this is how Geralt repays him?

He can feel his grip start to slacken, his fingers shaking so much he has to ball them into fists, but then he pauses. The sky above them is still dark, but from the East, he can see the faintest hint of pink in the sky. The sun is rising! They’re almost there!

Invigorated, Jaskier tightens his grip on the witcher, clasping his hands together behind Geralt’s back. “I’m not going anywhere, Geralt. Not until sunrise. I promised I would get you out, if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Oh for-... how many times must I repeat myself before it gets through your thick skull? I want to you gone, Jaskier. I lost almost everything because of you. The only thing I have left is Ciri and I do not want you near her, lest you ruin her too.” 

“I know, Geralt. Ciri is the one who sent me to find you, remember? I told you this last night. She’s fine, Geralt, she’s a smart girl, resourceful and kind. Just a little longer and we can go see her.” 

Geralt starts to struggle against him, trying to twist out of his grip, but his arms are pinned to his sides as Jaskier holds on for dear life. So close, they’re almost there. He presses his cheek against Geralt’s chest again and scrunches his eyes shut, as if he can block out the witcher’s shouts and curses with it. Geralt is almost screaming now, yelling the most horrible things and Jaskier bites his lip, letting the tears flow free. It’s not Geralt, he reminds himself, it’s a Fae trick to make him give up, to let Geralt go and he can’t give in, no matter what happens.

The witcher starts kicking at him, still struggling and cursing, his feet pummeling Jaskier’s ankles and shins. After a particularly nasty hit, the bard feels his knee give out and they tumble to the ground, onto mossy earth and soft leaves. Geralt lands under him and Jaskier almost lets go when the witcher’s bulk makes his trapped hands ache, but he regains his composure. The ground gives Geralt more leverage to try and throw him off, but he wraps his legs around the witcher, holding on for dear life and peaking through his eyelashes at the sky. The sliver of pink has gotten bigger, other colors blending in and he can see the faintest beam of sunlight making it’s way over the treetops. 

Just then, Geralt manages to pull one arm free. Jaskier barely has time to register what happens when the witcher brings a hard fist down on his already aching shoulder. It hurts, but he grits his teeth and takes it, takes the next blow as well, then one on his head that makes his vision blur for a second. He can’t let go now, he can’t, he’ll never forgive himself if he does. The next punch makes his teeth rattle and he can feel himself go dizzy, his blood pounding in his ears. Fuck, he can’t let go, he must hold on. He forces himself to look up at Geralt staring down at him, his face a mask of rage, his eyes tinged with a pale green, fist raised and poised for another blow.

And then a beam of sunlight pierces the foliage above, falling directly on the witcher’s face. Geralt’s expression suddenly slackens, his arm halting it’s trajectory and he blinks a couple of times in confusion. Jaskier’s heart swells in his chest as the sickly green leaves Geralt’s eyes, returning them to their golden yellow hue, and he lets out a breathy, shaky laugh.

“Jaskier?” Geralt frowns in confusion, but then his eyes widen, and he scrambles up. Jaskier’s arms finally slacken their death grip on Geralt and he wobbles, but the witcher reaches out, pulling him in an upright position, eyes frantically searching his face. “Gods, Jaskier, what did I do?”

Jaskier tries to reply, but Geralt suddenly janks on his arm, shoving the bard behind him. The Queen stands before them, her followers cowering behind her. She is phantasmal and shimmering in the early morning light and her pale eyes bore into them. “Curious,” she says, and her voice is colder than a winter storm, her face a mask of contempt, “so curious. Every year, a human finds their way to our world and every year, they are convinced that someone will come for them, someone will pull them from our grasp. Every year, they are disappointed and they die on our altar bleeding with grief. But you...” She takes a step in their direction and Geralt snarls at her, even though he is unarmed. The Queen ignores is, staring at Jaskier over the witcher’s shoulder. “You have won him back, mortal,” she sneers, “for now. Take your prize and leave.”

“My gear,” Geralt growls and Jaskier has to suppress a snort. Let it not be said that Geralt of Rivia squanders his possessions. The Queen does let out a noise - of either disbelief or exasperation, Jaskier doesn’t know which - and snaps her fingers. One of the Fae behind her steps forwards and tosses a bundle in front of the witcher. He makes no move to pick it up, not taking his eyes off the Queen, who meets his stare, unwavering.

“What of the villagers?” Jaskier asks, peeking around Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt growls at him, a sound he knows to mean _‘for the love of all gods, Jaskier, know when to shut up’_ , but he, too, ignores it. “What about your pact with them?”

“The pact stands,” the Queen replies icily, “good fortunes for them, in exchange for a tithe each year. We will be expecting another soul next year. For this year though,” and her eyes slide back to Geralt, “this year, we will have to make do with what we have. Now go. Do not come back.”  
She turns around and fades in the light of the rising sun.

For a moment, neither of them move a muscle. Then, Geralt lets out a huff and bends down to pick up his armor and swords and pull them on. Jaskier is suddenly very aware of how pointedly Geralt is _not_ looking at him, instead focussing on the ground as he shimmies into his armor and straps his swords onto his back. Still turned away, he grunts out “Are you hurt?”

Jaskier starts, the ‘no’ already on his lips, but then he realises that his entire body feels sore. His shoulder, where the giant centipede bit him earlier, burns and he’s pretty sure he’s got an impressive lump on his head. He settles for a hesitant “A little,” hoping that will make Geralt turn around and actually face him.

“Can you make the walk back to the inn?” For fucks sake, why won’t he just turn around and actually look him in the eye?

“I guess.”

“ _Hmm._ ” Without another word, Geralt marches off, not even checking if the bard is following him. Jaskier stays where he is, mouth agape in disbelief, but then the anger he’s been pushing down finally bubbles up in his chest and he clenches his teeth. Very well, if that is how the witcher wants to play it, that’s how it’s going to be. He folds his arms and stays where he is, calmly watching Geralt walk further and further away.

Of course, Geralt realises that Jaskier isn’t following him soon enough. He stops at the edge of the clearing, still not turning around, but he does turn his head slightly, not quite looking over his shoulder. “Jaskier?”

“Yes, Geralt?” He realises his voice is trembling and knows that Geralt has heard it too, but he stays where he is.

“Are you coming?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Geralt. Is that what you want?”

Geralt turns his head a little further, looking at him from the corner of his eye. “Jaskier-”

“Because the last time,” the bard interrupts him and now his voice is dripping with fury, he’s clenching his teeth and hissing from between them, “the last _fucking time_ , Geralt of Rivia, I remember you being very opposed to me travelling with you. I even distinctly remember you telling me that. How exactly did you voice it again? Oh, right; ‘if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands’. Something like that, I believe.” The barely perceptible flinch of Geralt’s shoulders gives him a small amount of satisfaction, but it does not satisfy the hungry beast in his chest. “So forgive me for not chomping at the bit to just up and follow you again, Geralt. Forgive me for not jumping from joy and leaping up to walk with you, because I feel I get to be cautious. After all, who knows when your mood will sour and you tire from me again?” 

Geralt actually turns around now, his face carefully blank, and that, that sets him off properly. Jaskier snarls and steps forward, his voice rising in volume with every step closer to the witcher.

“How long until my perceived fuck-ups will make you throw me aside again, Geralt? How do you suppose I will set you off next time? Strumming my lute? Not keeping pace with Roach? Shivering from the cold? Why the fuck would you want me by your side, after I, in your words, fucked up your life beyond repair last time?”

He’s nose to nose with Geralt, whose face has gone slack, his eyes wide as words keep falling out of Jaskier’s mouth.

“How many years are you going to give me this time? I suppose twenty-two is a little much to ask, but how long do you think you can tolerate me this time? How long are you going to humor me, string me along and keep me hoping until you are done with me again? Or perhaps you’re already done, just itching to get away and get back to your Destiny? Is that why you’re so keen to get back to the inn, so you can saddle Roach, take Ciri and just leave again? Tell me, Geralt, because if you’re going to leave again, I’d rather know now and not after operating under the wrong assumptions for years!” He’s thumping his balled fists on Geralt’s chest, he realises, and his vision is blurred with the tears streaming down his cheeks, his breaths coming in short, high bursts between sentences. Why, why isn’t Geralt saying anything, why is he just standing there, why isn’t he-

Strong arms encircle him and Geralt wordlessly pulls the bard against his chest. Jaskier fights the embrace for a second, then slumps, his face pressed against a leather clad shoulder and he cries, tears and snot flowing freely. Geralt does not shush him, but he does squeeze him closer, one hand rubbing soothingly up and down his back as he lets Jaskier cry.

Finally, Jaskier finds that he has no tears left and he stills. He refuses to pull away though, does not want the strange embrace to end just yet, but scared to press closer, afraid that Geralt will let go now that he’s stopped crying. 

“Better?” the witcher asks, gruffly and a lot gentler than usual.

“Not really,” Jaskier admits, “not yet, at least.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums into his ear, still rubbing Jaskier’s back, his hand firm and assuring in it’s repetitive motion.

“Why are you even still here,” Jaskier bites out, but he’s tired now, so tired after all this, he does not have the energy to keep fighting. He just wants… he doesn’t even know what he wants.

“Because you’re here.”

“Don’t. You hurt me. You hurt me a lot. You don’t get to say shit like that and pretend to make it right.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Geralt pushes him away, but he’s gentle, and he keeps a firm hold of Jaskier’s upper arms - to keep him upright or keep him from running? - as he finally, _finally_ looks him in the eye. “I’m here because I…” He trails off, presses his lips together, looks away and looks back immediately. “I’m not like you, Jaskier. I can’t spin words and say pretty things and… and that frustrates me. Because I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say it like you think I would,” Jaskier replies, “just say what you mean.”

Geralt gives him a half smile, one corner of his mouth turned up, but there’s a softness in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier breathes shakily at those words. “Go on.”

“Go on?”

“It’s a good start. But it’s not enough. Go. On.”

“I…” Geralt starts, then falters, then seems to make a decision. “Alright. I’m sorry. For everything I said on the mountain. For blaming you. For lashing out at you, because I thought you would just take it, like you took other insults I hurled at you. I was wrong. I was in pain and I was angry, but I was not angry with you and I should not have hurt you. I should never have hurt you.”

Jaskier nods at that. “You shouldn’t have. But you did.”

“I know. I knew the moment you walked away. I wanted to follow you, but I felt I did not have that right. You spent years, the better part of your life, convincing the world that I wasn’t a monster, and then I turned on you and became one anyway. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier lets out a laugh, watery and frail, but he also smiles, so wide his cheeks hurt with it. “And you claim not to know your way with words.”

Geralt smiles too, one hand coming up to gently cup Jaskier’s cheek. “You bring it out in me.”

Jaskier stills at that. “Geralt?”

The witcher pauses, his smile fading, but not disappearing completely. “I… after I pushed you away, I had a lot of time to think. Came to a couple of realisations. To be honest, Yennefer helped.”

The mention of the sorceress makes a knot form in Jaskier’s stomach. “You found her again?”

“At Sodden, after the battle. She called me some colorful names, but we talked. Cleared some things up.”

“Such as?”

Geralt bites his lip. “We are connected, Yen and I, but not… we agreed that it was better not to stay… _involved_ , as such. She does want to be part of my life, and that of Ciri, but we do not work, together. Especially…” He trails off again, and the look on his face is one Jaskier has never seen before. 

“Especially what?” he prods?

Geralt opens his mouth, pauses, then sighs “Ah, fuck it all,” and leans in. Jaskier stills, stunned, as Geralt brushes their lips together, gently and soft, not demanding at all and giving him enough space and opportunity to stop, pull away, break it off. But he doesn’t. He lets Geralt kiss him, softer than he ever imagined the witcher could be, and he stays where he is, afraid to disrupt the moment.

Geralt pulls back, his expression unreadable, but not afraid. “Well, that,” he says, lamely, then adds, “Yen pointed out… well… I really hope she was right, when she said…”

“Wha?” Jaskier replies, still dumbfounded.

“Well… Yennefer pointed out that, for all the unkindness I showed you during our travels, you… you stayed. That made me… hope, I suppose.” Geralt blushes - he actually blushes - and then looks away, as if ashamed. “I… if I got this wrong, please tell me, just… just don’t leave again. I want you by my side, however you wish to be. I can… live with friendship, if-”

“Fuck friendship.”

Geralt looks up at him, a look of surprise on his face. “Jas-?”

Jaskier does not give him the time to say anything else. He wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck and pulls the witcher closer. He kisses him, hard, none of the gentleness Geralt showed him earlier. For all the reassurance and safety Geralt’s kiss spoke of, his is one of passion, of answer, of reciprocation, and he pours everything he has into it. Geralt is quick on the uptake, thankfully, his arms quickly wrapping around Jaskier’s waist as he returns the kiss, actually sweeping the bard off his feet and lifting him from the ground, drinking him in.

When they part again, Jaskier is panting, but it’s the good kind of panting. His head feels light, his heart full and he’s sure he’s grinning like a lunatic. Geralt, too, is smiling, his face transforming with it, open and shining. He’s the most beautiful thing Jaskier has ever seen. Geralt moves to kiss him again, but Jaskier stops him. “Later. For now, we have to get back. Ciri must be going mad with worry, I promised her I would be back.”

At the mention of Ciri, Geralt seems to sober up, and he sets Jaskier back down on the ground with care. “Alright. Later.” He starts walking, but then turns back. “Are you hurt? Did I… do much?”

Jaskier smiles, taking Geralt’s hand in his. “I’ll be fine. You can make it up to me later.”

*

Ciri is waiting at the edge of the forest, pacing back and forth. When she sees them coming, stepping out from between the trees, she lets out a sob and runs towards them. Geralt catches her as she throws her arms around him and she cries, but they’re tears of obvious relief. “I came as soon as the sun came up,” she hiccups, “I couldn’t… I was so afraid.”

“I’m sorry,” he rumbles, gently stroking her head, “I’m so sorry I scared you. But I’m safe now. Jaskier found me.”

At the mention of the bard, Ciri looks up, her face still wet. She reaches out for Jaskier with one arm and he steps in, hugging her too. One of Geralt’s arms falls around his shoulders and they hold onto each other in relief and joy.

Eventually, they make it back to the inn, to pack up and leave for Kaer Morhen. The innkeeper has the decency to look surprised as Geralt walks back in. The witcher glares at him, but Jaskier grabs him by the shoulder before he can move forwards. “Leave it,” he says, gently pushing Geralt towards the stairs, “go and pack your things. I’ll have a chat with him.”

Geralt grunts, but follows Ciri up the stairs obediently, leaving Jaskier alone with the innkeeper. The man stands behind his counter and waits as Jaskier saunters up him. “Good morning, good sir. Could I bother you to pack us up some supplies? We will be leaving shortly and will be needing it.”

The innkeeper glowers at him and Jaskier grins. “So, crisis averted, no tithe needed for this year, but I’m afraid that’s all we could do. Tricky things, these pacts with Fae. Then again, you get off easily in my opinion. Good fortune will keep coming this way, as long as you lot pick up the tradition again next year, no harm done. Well, little harm, I suppose,” and he gestures to his own shoulder, which, thankfully, has stopped bleeding, but he is a little sore about the damage done to his jacket. Oh well.

“What do you want,” the innkeeper grunts, his eyes fixed on the bard.

“Like I said,” Jaskier replies, still grinning, “supplies for the road, and don’t be skimpy. We do have a long way to go.”

“So that’s it?” the man snarls, “I send out your friend, knowing what might happen, and you just… let it slide?”

Jaskier pauses, pretending to be lost in thought for a while. “Well, now that you mention it, I suppose you could pay us back for the use of your rooms as well. After all, we - or, to be fair, I - did manage to keep the pact with the Good Folk intact, even after I cheated them out of their tithe. Seems fair of you to compensate us for the trouble.”

The innkeeper glares more, but he also sags in defeat and grabs for his money pouch. “Fair’s fair. I suppose I should be lucky the witcher won’t skin me for the trouble.”

Jaskier watches as the man carefully counts out the coins, then disappears into the kitchen before returning with a large satchel which, upon inspection, contains some fresh breads and fruits, as well as smokes sausages and nuts. Definitely better than what most towns would offer, he decides as he drops the money into his pouch. When he turns to leave though, the innkeeper pipes up “So… no hard feelings?”

Jaskier pauses, one foot on the first stair, then half-turns. “I won’t say that. But I do understand why you did what you did. But,” he adds, “if we ever hear of you lot sending outsiders into the woods again, trust me… we’ll be back. Do not send innocent people in to clean up your messes.”

The innkeeper stares at him for a second, then nods. “Agreed.”

Jaskier returns the nod, then bounds upstairs. He needs a change of clothes before they leave. Riding out in bloody and torn clothes is more Geralt’s style than his.

*

“And then what happened?” Ciri asks, wide-eyed, as Jaskier regales her with the events of last night while they ride along, Ciri and Geralt on Roach and Jaskier on Buttercup.

“Then, my dear,” Jaskier replies in a stage-whisper, “the scales melted away and I found myself hugging the biggest centipede I had ever seen. A thousand wriggling legs, snapping poisonous jaws, and the way it squirmed in my arms, I say, I nearly fainted from the horror of it all!”

Ciri gasps and Geralt rolls his eyes. “Are you sure that’s what they turned me into?”

“Geralt, do you deny the evidence before your very eyes?” Jaskier dramatically unbuttons his doublet - a blue one, not the dark green one that got so carelessly torn in the forest - and Ciri squeals when she sees the bandages wrapped around his shoulder. “The fiend bit me in an attempt to get away, but I held on, steadfast, determined to save my love from the claws of the callous folk determined to sacrifice him!”

Geralt snorts, but his eyes linger on the bandage and Jaskier sees the flash of guilt in those yellow eyes and decides to stop teasing. “It is a foul thing, to manipulate a man into attacking the one trying to save him,” he says to Ciri, who nods solemnly at his words, “to take his mind and force him to do things he would never do, were he aware of what was happening. So we should not hold it against him, no more than we would judge a wounded creature for lashing out.”

“Right,” Ciri says, smiling and looking up at Geralt, the fondness on her face palpable. Geralt smiles down at her and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. Jaskier gazes at them both in fondness before continuing his story, gesticulating wildly and encouraged by Ciri’s exclamations of suspense and awe. From time to time though, he glances at Geralt, who does not add much to the story, save for the occasional hum or snort of disbelief at a particularly embellished claim, but who does gaze at both Ciri and Jaskier with unbridled fondness. 

They make good time for the day and it’s almost dark when they finally make their way into the woods to set up camp. Ciri is exhausted from the long day and the many sleepless nights, falling asleep she stretches out on her bedroll. Jaskier gently covers her with a blanket, stroking her long hair once before moving away to sit down next to Geralt, who’s throwing some more wood onto the fire. “Hey you,” he whispers, bumping the witcher’s shoulder as he scoots up next to him and stares into the flames. Geralt bumps back, careful of Jaskier’s injury, and hums.

They sit like that for a while, just watching the flames in amiable silence. After a while, Geralt hums once more. “A wounded creature?”

“Hmm?” Jaskier has been nodding off, his head on Geralt’s shoulder, basking in the warmth of the fire and the solid presence of the witcher.

“What you said, earlier… do you really not hold it against me?”

“Caught onto that bit, did you? You really are smarter than you appear.”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier chuckles. “Alright, alright, calm down.” He pauses, stifling a yawn, then adds, “I… I won’t say I’ve completely forgiven you yet, but… I no longer hold it against you. Not like I used to.” When Geralt moves to reply, he groans. “Geralt, please. It’s late, we’ve had a long day and we only just reconnected. I need some more time before it stops hurting completely.”

Geralt goes completely still next to him, even his breathing seems to stop, and Jaskier can feel the witcher’s gaze on him. When he looks, the expression on Geralt’s face is guarded and anticipating, as if he’s waiting for Jaskier to hit him. It takes him a moment to catch onto what Geralt is really trying to ask.

“I’m not leaving,” he says, “I want to stay with you. You won’t wake up in the morning and find me gone, Geralt. I promise.”

Geralt sags in relief and Jaskier prides himself in still being able to read Geralt as well as he used to. Really, for all his stoicism and non-verbal tendencies, to him the witcher is an open book.

“That’s… good to know,” Geralt finally says.

“Yeah,” Jaskier adds. And to put emphasis on his point, he gently takes Geralt’s hand in his own.

Together, they stare into the flames until the sky has gone completely dark. When it has, they roll out their own bedrolls and lay down next to each other, no more words to share. But right before he drifts off, Jaskier feels Geralt grab his hand once more and squeeze gently. He squeezes back.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout-out and thanks go AJ and Garden, who gave me tips and corrected many spelling mistakes.
> 
> Toss a kudo (or comment) to your author! That will certainly make me write more.


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